


Penitence is Overrated

by malevolentmango



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mild Smut, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 01:25:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11325771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malevolentmango/pseuds/malevolentmango
Summary: A lot can happen in two years. Including, as Sam discovers in the two years he spent with Rafe, things you never expected.





	Penitence is Overrated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeftHand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftHand/gifts).



> This fic exists solely because of [Lefty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lefthand), whom I would die for and also write rarepair fics for, which some people might equate to death anyway.

It's the cold that took the most getting used to. Panama robbed Sam of his tolerance for snow as much as it did a decade of his time, and even after two years in Scotland he still hates the feeling of thick fabric against his skin every time he's forced to put on a jacket. 

 

It's easy to comply everytime Rafe tells him to take it off. He can't wait to be rid of it anyway. 

 

Two years, he thinks, puffing another lungful of smoke out the open window of his room at Rafe’s base, an old house a few miles from the cathedral that didn't have much in the way of amenities except for his bed. Two years of freedom that hadn't quite been free. 

 

The plan had been to stay for a few months, six at the very most, to get every detail he could. To scour every inch of the site and Rafe’s notes, so he could take it all back to Nate and finish what they'd started, what their mother had started, all those years ago.

 

Sam’s never exactly been good at sticking with the plan.

 

There's a knock at the door, perfunctory; Sam barely has time to say “Yeah?” before the door’s opening anyway. Rafe strides through, his hair still wet from the shower. He must have just gotten back, even though it's been dark outside for hours now. 

 

“You know, I read somewhere that workaholics have shorter life spans,” Sam says, not moving from his window perch. He can just make out the spires of the cathedral from here, not quite hidden by Scotland’s endless hills and greenery. It's beautiful, even in darkness. 

 

Rafe snorts, closing the door behind him and locking it. He's wearing a plush robe and, presumably, nothing else. They both know that's all he needs for the night. 

 

“Yeah well, so do people who jump off cliffs on a regular basis.”

 

Sam just grins ruefully. He finishes his cigarette and puts it out in the ashtray on the windowsill. He closes the window against the chill and stands to face Rafe.

 

A decade hasn't done much to change Rafe. Sure, he's showing all the typical signs of tacking on that many years, but he's never slowed down at all. He’s still just as intense as the first time they worked together, just as obsessed with making a name for himself outside the one he inherited. Still charming in a calculated sort of way that draws Sam in every single time they meet. 

 

“Find anything after I left?”

 

Rafe makes himself at home on Sam's bed, dripping all over his pillows. He sighs. “Nothing. But there's a section under the south wing that looks promising.”

 

Sam thinks it's probably not promising, but he knows better than to say that out loud. If Rafe has heard about what's up for auction at the Rossi Estate, he's not letting Sam in on it. Or maybe he just doesn't know. He supposes it doesn't really make a difference either way. 

 

“Should be fun,” Sam says, pulling his shirt off over his head and tossing it in the corner with the rest of his things. He didn't have much, even after being out for two years now. It makes things easier. 

 

Rafe smirks up at him from the bed. “I can think of something even more fun.”

 

Falling into bed with Rafe had been as easy as it was unexpected. Sam often jokes that it's the only time they really get along, which isn't much of a joke considering how true it is. They're at each other's throats (not in the fun way) more often than not during the day - Rafe’s so hellbent on getting results that he's almost manic most of the time, and Sam’s too restless after a decade in prison to be tied to that kind of energy for very long. It doesn't make for a great working relationship.

 

It's not all bad, of course. Rafe keeps him on his toes, keeps him digging, keeps him focused. And even if he's doing it for selfish reasons, Sam doesn't mind. Sometimes it all gets to be too much, this world beyond the bars. All the things he's missed, all the things he's forgotten. Rafe fills in the gaps of his history-laden mind. He's just kind of an asshole about it.

 

So yeah, Sam is bad about sticking to plans. He should have left months ago. He should have left as soon as he found out about the cross at the Rossi Estate. But he didn't.

 

Because everything's different under the cover of darkness, when there's only the stars to judge you. And frankly, they're not doing a very good job.

 

“Take this thing off,” Sam mutters, kneeling over Rafe, tugging on the cord binding his robe together. 

 

“Don't like unwrapping your presents?”

 

Sam snorts. “You ain't exactly a gift.”

 

“I beg to differ. I've got several  _ gifts.” _

 

Rafe slides a hand past Sam’s waistband, and Sam promptly forgets about the metaphor entirely. 

 

It would be easy to write this off as just a bit of fooling around. As a release, a mutual relief from the strain of a endless, fruitless search. But it's more than that. Rafe is like an addiction, and Sam's not sure if he's better or worse for him than the cigarettes, but he does know that he's only keeping one of them. 

 

Afterwards, Sam waits. Rafe’s a paranoid bastard, but he mellows out after sex, and it doesn't take long for the panting of his breath in the afterglow to even out into the rhythmic pattern of sleep. 

 

Sam has no reason to stay any longer than that. But he does. 

 

Rafe is deceptively innocent in his rest. He looks younger, more like the kid he had been when he first bribed their way into that prison in Panama. A calm face for such an obsessive personality. 

 

Sam hates this version of him. He just wishes he could hate the rest of him too. 

 

He remembers the first night they ever spent together, when Sam discovered that he much prefers the awake version of Rafe despite the endless ranting that comes with it. A drunk and fumbling encounter, with Sam still riding high on the feeling of finally being free. Laying together, sweat-soaked and drowsy at the end of it. 

 

Rafe had turned to him and said, “If I'd known you’d survived that fall, I would've come back for you just for a piece of that.”

 

Sam had just laughed. “No, you wouldn't have.” Rafe tried to argue, but Sam just kept talking, the too-honest words slipping from his mouth. “It doesn't matter. You got Nate out of there. That's more important.”

 

Rafe had just given him a strange look and, remarkably, hadn't had anything more to say. 

It's the thought of Nate that finally has him sliding carefully, slowly, from the bed. He puts his clothes back on in the dark, shrugging on the jacket that he hates under the watchful gaze of the stars. His bag is already packed - it's easy to leave when you have next to nothing to take with you. 

 

Sam pauses, his hand on the doorknob, to take one last look over his shoulder. Rafe is still asleep, his head turned toward the window. Toward where Sam's had once been. He'll be livid tomorrow, but Sam won't be around to witness that particular meltdown. 

 

“I'll be seeing you, Rafe,” he says, barely a whisper, before he heads out the door. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, tainting the already sour words he rehearses in his head once more as he makes his way to New Orleans. 


End file.
